


I won’t make you say the words out loud

by visiblemarket



Series: All Of This A Way To Go [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Feelings again, M/M, Nonverbal Communication, Relationship Talk, background team shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 10:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Debriefing isn’t exactly Clint’s favorite part of the job on a <i>good</i> day.</p>
<p>Today has not been a good day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I won’t make you say the words out loud

**Author's Note:**

> Continuation of [I won't make you any more tired](http://archiveofourown.org/works/572082), split because there were tonal differences.

They're waiting in a conference room to debrief, and Clint's trying very hard not to look disproportionately pissed. Because yeah, this isn't his favorite part of the job at the best of times. But today, with Phil gone, he's got precisely zero things to look forward to, and that makes the exhaustion he's usually pretty good at hiding weigh on him more than usual. The fact that they've been waiting for almost half an hour isn't helping, but he’s trying not to let it show, either. 

He's distracting himself (and others) with a recently appropriated rubber band and box of thumbtacks. To his credit, it's working pretty well: everyone except Tony, who's sulking and fiddling with a pen, is watching him flick patterns into the ceiling tiles when the door opens. 

"What the hell happened to you?" That's Tony’s pretending-not-to-care-but-actually-full-of-concern voice, and it throws Clint's focus enough that his last thumbtack bounces instead of sticking and clatters onto the table. Phil, who's coming in, looks stoically exasperated, and Clint sees what Tony meant: his hair's as disheveled as it can get, his shirt's streaked with ash and occasionally scorched, and his jacket and tie are missing. 

Clint frowns; Phil catches his eye, shakes his head slightly, and when Clint glares at him, unimpressed, the corners of his mouth twitch. Clint relaxes. Phil's behind him for a second as he walks around the table, and Clint feels a hand brush across his shoulders quickly enough that it'd seem accidental to anyone who was looking. He leans back in his chair and watches Phil sit down, not quite directly in front of him. His shirt's open at the collar, and Clint finds himself fighting a grin. 

A sharp poke in the ribs reminds him that he's staring, and he drops his gaze and nods his thanks to Natasha, who's visibly holding in laughter. No one else seems to notice; most other eyes are on Tony, who's been fiddling with that pen since they'd been herded in here and has, since Phil arrived and ignored him, started tapping it on the table with increasing frequency. Finally, he snaps.

"In my defense, they looked harmless."

"Noted," Phil says, so drily that everyone, from Captain America down to the junior agent who'd been sent in to babysit them while they waited, winces. 

"It's not my fault that this was the _one_ time the containment unit was actually on the ball."

Phil sighs. "I'm not sure your continued disregard for SHIELD personnel and their protocols is your strongest defense, Mr. Stark, but I'll keep it in mind."

"I'll pay for all the damages."

"Once the research division stops smoldering, we'll start calculating the bill." 

Tony's silent for a full thirty seconds, and then throws his pen down. "Is that it?"

"From me." Phil sighs again, looking at Tony with something that’s pretty far from pity, but isn’t quite full-on glee. "Director Fury's on his way."

Tony shuts up. Clint tries to catch Phil's eye again, but all he gets is another head-shake and a _Not now_ frown. He drops his head but lets himself look anyway, out of the corner of his eye, just to make sure; Phil's definitely a little worse for wear, but he's not visibly injured, beyond a couple of scratches on his cheek. 

Clint lets his gaze wander, down along Phil's neck, what he can see of Phil's chest, and that's when he notices: the edge of a red-bruising-to-purple bite mark at the base of Phil's throat. He sits up a little more abruptly than he intended, and if the door hadn't banged open at precisely that moment to admit a scowling Nick Fury, he might have had some explaining to do.

As it is, Phil gives him a curious glance. Clint checks around the table; everyone's too busy watching Fury pace and work himself up to something, so he waves a hand quickly over his throat and raises his eyebrows. Phil's brow furrows, and he frowns, obviously not getting it. 

Fury's started talking ("—of all the _bone-headed_ , irresponsible—"), but it's nothing he hasn't heard before, so Clint gives a quick look around, then back at Phil. Points at him, subtle as he can, and mimes buttoning up a dress shirt under his neck. Phil cocks his head, still not getting it, but brings his hands up to the first unbuttoned hole, and Clint nods maybe a little too vigorously. Phil's eyes widen slightly, and dart to the right. Clint follows his gaze. Fury's leaning over the table and giving him a deceptively genial smile.

"Agent Barton."

"Yessir."

"Do you and Agent Coulson need a minute?" 

Clint swallows; it's not like Fury doesn't _know_ , but Clint's not sure if he came to that knowledge in his capacity as Nick, Phil’s oldest and closest friend, or as Colonel Fury, Director of SHIELD, the vindictive bastard who wouldn’t hesitate to take Clint out should he deem it necessary. He's got no doubt as to which one he's looking at right now, though.

"No sir." 

"Correct, you _do not_." Fury glowers at him for what feels like a solid minute longer, and then his attention snaps back to the room at large. "You're all benched until further notice. Stark, you and Dr. Banner are banned from Level 10 _for life_. Captain Rogers, I don't give a _damn_ what kind of noble bullshit was going through your head, when a superior orders you to retreat, you _damn well do it_. Romanoff, after the first one took down a wall when it _exploded_ , electrocuting the _rest_ of those fuckers should have seemed like a _stupid as shit_ idea, and you can be sure I'll be telling Thor the same the minute _he_ shows up again. Barton, I don't know what the fuck _you've_ been up to, but you're looking _guilty as hell_ , so you'd better hope I don't find out about it. You are _all_ better than this amateur hour bullshit, people, so start acting like it. Have I made myself clear?" 

There's a chorus of "Yes, sir"s around the table; Tony keeps his mouth shut, which is about as good as it gets. With that, Fury glares at all of them again, gives Phil a pointed look, and then stalks out. 

Phil clears his throat, and blinks as all attention goes to him. "Any questions?"

"Was anyone hurt?" Tony sounds casual, but his eyes don't seem to want to settle anywhere and he's back at it with the pen. 

"A couple of first degree burns, and Agent Carbaugh broke his ankle." Nothing major, in other words. Tony nods in thanks, and Phil's expression softens. "Anything else? Captain Rogers?"

Steve, who looks more thoroughly miserable than usual, waits for a moment as if formulating what he's about to say. "About Agent Sitwell, sir, I—I didn't mean any disrespect, I hope he's aware that I was just...that's to say, I—"

"He's aware," Phil says, smoothly, and looks over at Natasha. "Thanks for the help, Agent Romanoff."

"I—you're welcome, sir," she says. Phil nods to himself, and then turns his gaze to Clint. It's then that he realizes, what with everything else, Phil had never gotten around to buttoning the collar of his shirt. And Clint's exhausted, and his normally vise-like grip on his reactions has been steadily eroding, and he finds himself blushing. 

"Barton?" 

Clint just shakes his head. "It's nothing, sir."

"All right. Well," Phil’s slightly flustered, and Clint can't even enjoy it. "You're all dismissed. We'll do one-on-ones in the morning. At the Tower, please." 

A murmur of assents ripples around the table, and people start standing up and wandering away. Steve, _fucking Steve_ , makes a beeline to Phil's side, and Clint has to decide between being completely obvious by waiting at the door, or moving along and trying to catch up with him later. 

He comes down on the "fuck propriety" side of things and lurks, waiting for the two of them to make their way out. Which is why he hears Steve, in that completely innocent, totally concerned voice of his, ask Phil if he's okay right as they reach the door.

"I'm fine, Captain."

"It's _Steve_ , but what I mean is, you've got this—" he makes a vague, _you've got something on your neck_ gesture, and of course, Phil gets _that_. His hand goes up, and he winces when his fingers brush over the mark; he looks over at Clint, who rolls his eyes. "And it looks kinda painful, so I was just—"

"It's fine, it's—-it's just a burn," Phil says, hurriedly, and adjusts his collar so it's at least slightly less visible. 

"Oh," Steve says, too polite to point out that it's plainly not. And as hilarious as it is to watch Phil in what's probably _physical pain_ over lying to his childhood idol, Clint's willing to rescue him if it'll give him something to bargain Phil home with.

"I don't know, sir, maybe you should have that looked at," he says, walking over and easing the collar of his shirt out of the way.

Phil brushes him off. "That's really _not necessary_ , Barton." 

"Better safe then sorry, right, sir? C’mon, I'll walk you down to medical."

Phil's eyes narrow, but before he can say anything, Steve pats him on the shoulder. "I think you should take him up on that, Phil. Just in case." And then Steve (fucking _Steve_ ) looks over at Clint, and winks. He gives the flabbergasted Phil a shoulder squeeze, wishes them both a nice (nice!) rest of the afternoon, and walks off almost jauntily, with both hands in his pockets, like the big blond matchmaker he clearly thinks he is. 

Once he's around the corner, Clint drags Phil back into the conference room and gives him his most comforting smile. Phil groans, drops his face into his palms, and gives a full-bodied shake that makes Clint laugh despite his best intentions.

"So he knows you have a sex life, Phil, it's not the end of the world." 

Phil snorts, his shoulders still quaking, but Clint has a feeling it was not the right thing to say. "After you all just got reamed out for your lack of professionalism? Did anyone else—"

"No. Well, maybe 'Tasha." It's always a safe bet that Natasha would notice anything you didn't want her to. "And Fury knows—"

Phil lifts his head and gives Clint a look that stops him cold. "Fury doesn't know we fuck _here_."

Any other day, Clint would point out that technically, they didn’t fuck, or that they haven't actually done anything in the conference room, or that neither Fury, Natasha, or Steve had any way of knowing _when_ he and Phil had been fooling around, but in the face of Phil's expression, all he can manage is, "Maybe we should stop." 

"What?"

"Fucking. If it's such a blow to your goddamn _professionalism_ , maybe we should stop." Clint adds what he thinks is a perfectly unaffected shrug, and actively stares Phil down as he sighs, _again_ , and leans on the edge of the conference table with his arms crossed. 

"I don't want to do this with you," he says.

"Yeah, that's kinda what I'm suggesting," Clint bites out, and Phil makes a low, strangled sound that indicates his patience is flagging.

"You _know_ that's not what I meant."

"What _did_ you mean, _Agent Coulson_?"

"I don't want to fight with you right now." 

"No, you just want to have me around to screw with when you feel like it." Clint watches that one hit home, and doesn't regret it. 

He turns to leave, and Phil's behind him almost instantly, not touching him but close enough that Clint can feel his warmth, smell the ash and smoke on him. 

"Do you really think that?" It's not accusing, or guilty, or loaded; he's genuinely curious, which is why Clint answers.

"No."

Phil hand drops to his waist. "But?" 

"Sometimes you get..." Clint wants to fidget, wants to run, but instead he stays still and closes his eyes. "Distant." 

Phil makes a sympathetic noise and eases closer. "Sorry," he says, pressing a kiss to the side of Clint's neck. "I don't mean to."

"It's okay." And it is, mostly. Clint's not really one to talk about emotional availability. He has no right to ask for more than he can give. It really is fine. 

"It's not," Phil says. "Turn around." Clint does. Phil meets his eyes carefully, and smiles, a little sadly. "You overwhelm me."

Clint blinks. "What the hell does _that_ mean?" 

"It means sometimes I look at you, and I can't believe how lucky I am, and that makes me..." he seems to be fighting for the right word, and what comes out is: "Nervous." 

" _Nervous_?" 

Phil shrugs. "About what happens when it ends." 

_It won't_ , Clint wants to say. Petulantly, like a child who truly believes it. But they both know better, did even before the universe at large decided to make it abundantly clear, so he reaches over and presses his palm against Phil's chest. He can feel the raised edges of scars through Phil's shirt, but focuses on Phil's heartbeat instead. It's a little faster than normal, and it strikes Clint how often he must do this, to know that. He drops his hand, embarrassed. 

"I'm here right now." he says, not quite understanding why his voice sounds so shaky and fucking _needy_ when all he wanted was to point out the obvious. To cover that, he grabs Phil by the front of his shirt again, and pulls him closer. "And so're you. Got it?"

It takes him a moment, but eventually, Phil smiles. He runs his fingers up and down along Clint's arm, then looks straight into his eyes. "Got it." 

Clint doesn't look away, or let him go. He has to say something, though, before the scrutiny becomes too much. "D.C.?" 

"My flight was canceled." Phil obviously wants to say something else, but he doesn't, and Clint takes it for the gift that it is.

"Then let's get the hell out of here before something else goes wrong."

"Agreed," Phil says, finally letting himself look utterly exhausted, and Clint can't help it. He leans in to kiss him. Means for it to be quick, chaste, but Phil’s hand slides up to Clint’s shoulder as he kisses back, and Clint lets himself linger.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
